


you're not the one

by scheherazade



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-20
Updated: 2010-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-30 18:10:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because even good boys get tired of pretending sometimes, and Tomas wants to do at least one crazy thing tonight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're not the one

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the LJ tennisslash community's [Key Fic](http://community.livejournal.com/tennisslash/1166109.html) challenge.

As soon as Marat calls his name along with Marin's, Tomas knows that he's screwed. And not in the literal sense, because Marin's got this look that reminds Tomas of the little gray kitten he rescued from the river when he was four—the kitten with tufted fur and a pair of big blue eyes that stared at him from the corner of the house where it sat all day, every day, until his mom decided enough was enough, sold it to a neighbor and told Tomas that his kitten had run away, which made Tomas cry, thinking that it was because the kitten hadn’t liked him enough to want to live with them.

Tomas doesn't even know why he's thinking of that whole incident, apart from the fact that Marin Cilic really does remind him of his ill-fated pet, which kind of blows because when Tomas accepted Marat's invitation, he hadn't planned on spending his evening with a _kitten_.

No. He accepted the invitation knowing full well what he was getting into—had counted on it, even. Counted on it right up until Marat started pulling names out of the hat and landed him with _Marin Cilic_. Marin, who is a nice guy—a great guy, even—but isn't exactly what Tomas was hoping for. Because Tomas was planning on getting laid tonight; he doesn't even care who, just as long as it's someone who can push him onto a bed, a wall, the nearest flat surface and fuck him good and hard. He liked his chances. There are, after all, maybe only two guys at the whole party who _don’t_ fit the description.

Marin Cilic, unfortunately, happens to be one of those two. Because Marin reminds Tomas of a kitten, and Marin has probably never pushed anyone onto anything except maybe to get them out of the way of a speeding golf cart.

Murphy's Law really does have a knack for ruining your life in the most inconvenient ways.

The rest of the party is breaking up, breaking off into the assigned couples. Tomas watches Marin make his way across the room toward him; he watches as Marin tries to dodge around Federer and Simon, bumps into Roddick instead, trips over Del Potro’s foot, then somehow ends up almost falling face-first onto Tomas' lap. The Croat catches himself on the arm of a chair and straightens, blushing. Tomas wonders how much the other man has had to drink.

"Um," Marin says, looking around the room, looking everywhere but at Tomas. "Where do you want to go?"

_An alternate universe where I actually get lucky once in a while_ , Tomas thinks. Out loud, he says, "Let's get a room before they're all taken." He catches the vaguely panicked look that crosses Marin's face and adds, "We can watch TV or something. Marat doesn't have to know."

Marin gives him a look that further cements Tomas' mental image of a gray-furred kitten. "You sure?"

"I think he'll be too busy with Gulbis to notice much else."

"No, I meant—" Marin pauses. His eyes scan the room again, which has all but emptied. "Yeah, okay. Let's go...find a room."

It takes them a couple of tries to find a room that 1.) is open, and 2.) not already occupied. The first room they try, the door is locked. The second isn't locked, but it _is_ occupied, and Tomas gets an eyeful that he could have lived without ever seeing—though, who knew Ferrer is so flexible?—and Marin all but drags him away from the scene.

“Third time lucky,” Tomas says, and tries the door to a room at the far end of the second floor. The door isn’t locked—isn’t even properly closed, and gives way at a light touch; Tomas can practically hear Marin holding his breath, but mercifully the door opens onto an empty bedroom. There’s even a television set.

Tomas flicks the light switch on. Marin closes the door behind them. There’s an awkward moment as they stare at each other, the unspoken question hanging between them: _now what?_

One option might be to fake a laugh, glance casually at his watch and say, _Well, this has been sufficiently awkward. Guess I’ll be going. See you around._ Except he really should have done that about ten minutes ago, when Marin first approached him. Because now they’re here, four walls and a closed door shutting out most (if not all) of the noise and the rest of the world, and come to think of it—

“Why did you come up here with me?” Tomas asks. “It seems pretty obvious you don’t— You could have just left. Gone back to your hotel.”

Marin fidgets. “That wasn’t the point of the party, though.”

“I think the point of this whole thing was Marat wanted to sleep with Gulbis, and decided to have some fun with his plan along the way.”

That gets him an actual laugh. Marin wanders over to the middle of the room and sits down on the foot of the bed, lanky limbs folding into angles as he does so; he rubs the back of his head, fingers combing absently through the softly curling locks at the nape of his neck. Tomas catches himself wondering if Marin’s hair is as soft as it looks.

“But the real point is that everyone came,” Marin says. “And it was fun. It’s good to see...to see all these people. Not everyday it happens.”

Besides the bed and the TV opposite, there isn’t much furniture in the room. Tomas perches on the edge of the bed as well, making sure to keep enough distance between them. They sit in silence for a while. Then, it occurs to Tomas to ask,

“Who were you hoping to get?”

He feels Marin jump. “What?”

“When Marat was pulling names out of the hat. Who did you want to get paired up with?” Tomas pauses, sorting out his train of thought. “There’s a reason you came to the party, right?”

Marin stares down at his hands. “It was stupid,” he says. “I mean, one person in the whole party, with all these people...wasn’t much of a chance... I just convinced myself maybe there was a chance, so...”

And Tomas remembers the way Marin looked around the room, as the party was breaking up—remembers the way Marin’s eyes followed one couple in particular. Staring after them, wistful. Tomas remembers wondering why Marin was looking at Andy Roddick like that; but now the puzzle pieces rearrange themselves, and he really should have seen it coming.

“Mario?” he guesses.

Marin nods, and for some reason Tomas is suddenly reminded forcefully of soft gray and blue, love that he could never keep. It’s the look in Marin’s eyes, Tomas decides after a moment. So hesitantly hopeful, so wanting, yet willing to watch from the sidelines, content.

“Does he know?” Tomas finds himself asking. “I mean, you’re friends, right? You’re friends with him.”

“Yeah, which is sort of the problem.” Marin sighs. “I don’t know. I just thought, maybe if I got paired with him, something would work out. But I guess that only works in stories.”

Tomas tries to think of something to say, but all he comes up with is, “I”m sorry.”

“Why?” Marin looks surprised. “It’s not your fault we got stuck together...” He trails off, his eyes flickering toward the TV, the walls, back to Tomas. “So, um. Who... What were you hoping for? Why did you come to the party?”

Tomas shrugs. “I didn’t have anyone specific in mind.”

“So why...?

“I thought it might be fun.”

“Oh.” Marin says nothing for a long moment. “I didn’t know you were that kind of guy. I mean,” he adds hastily, “not that I think you’re _that_ kind of guy, it’s just, you don’t seem like the kind of person who...you seem... You’re a nice guy. You seem like a very nice guy.”

And isn’t that how it always is, Tomas thinks to himself. His relatives, his teachers—they’d all said the same thing, once upon a time. _Such a nice boy, that Tomas. Such a sweet, talented boy. A little shy, but he’s talented. He’ll get there. He’s a good boy._

Except he’s not. Tomas knows that, deep down, he’s really not all that nice—but no one is, or else the world would be a much kinder place. And sometimes he wonders if he's all that talented, either, because more and more it seems as if he’s missing a piece of the puzzle. As if he missed the memo, the one they handed out to the rest of the world: the magic formula that turns lost little kittens into heartwarming stories, the secret to harnessing the endless ability residing in your veins.

Because appearances are deceiving, he knows. Because the nice guy is too often the one who doesn’t have any real friends; because talent only gets you so far; and because even good boys get tired of pretending sometimes, and Tomas wants to do at least one crazy thing tonight.

“I’m not as nice as you probably think I am."

“Oh.” Marin hesitates again. “Well, then...do you want to...”

“No,” Tomas says, and it takes a second longer than he would’ve liked to get his voice to cooperate, say no instead of yes. “It’s fine. We don’t have to, if you’re not going to be into it.”

“But,” Marin starts to say. He chews on his lower lip for a moment, and it’s thoroughly distracting. So distracting that Tomas nearly misses his next words, “But I could. I think I could, if you just... I’ve never...but I could.”

Tomas looks at him, and Marin looks away.

“You sure?” he asks, very slowly. “You know what you’re doing?”

“Yes.” Marin rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, I can...I can—”

“You can—” _pretend_ , is what Tomas starts to say, but then changes his mind, “I can turn off the lights—”

“I’ll lock the door—”

“Okay,” they say simultaneously, and nearly trip over each other trying to get to the door and the light switch beside the door.

The lights go out the same moment Tomas hears the click of the lock, the room plunging into a velvet darkness that smells faintly of linen sheets and hardwood floors. The curtains are drawn over the sole window in the far wall, the night outside blacker than the shadows within.

Tomas can hear Marin’s breathing, can practically feel it vibrating the air beside him. He stretches out one arm in front of him, cautious. Just to make sure of the distance between them. His fingers brush against soft fabric, and then Marin’s hand is on his shoulder, drawing him closer.

Tomas can hear his own breathing now as well. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Not that much,” Marin replies, and his voice sounds different in the dark. “But enough.”

“Oh,” Tomas says. His eyes are starting to adjust to the dark, and he can see the outline of Marin’s face, close enough to kiss. The faint scent of cologne, more intoxicating than wine. Even though the layer of his shirt, Marin’s hand is hot against his skin.

“Should we—” Marin starts to say.

Tomas doesn’t let him finish. He puts both hands against Marin’s chest—one, two, three steps, and Marin’s back hits the wall. Their hips collide, the sudden friction sending a shock of pleasure through his system. Tomas fumbles with the zipper of Marin’s jeans—Marin’s hands still pressing against his shoulder, pressing _down_ —and it takes him a couple of tries to finally get the button undone.

Tomas drops to his knees. He can hear the way Marin’s breath hitches, feel the light tremors in his thighs, Marin’s fingers threading through his hair, trying to tug but finding no purchase against the short locks. Those hands curl around the back of his head instead when Tomas sucks him into his mouth; Marin makes a noise, a soft whimper growing steadily louder beneath Tomas’ hands and lips.

And it’s not what Tomas expected, not what he planned on, coming into this. But Marin is hot and heavy against his tongue; when he slides his hand up the inside of Marin’s thigh, Marin arcs into his touch; and when Marin comes, he makes a choked off sound that might be the first syllable of Mario’s name, or the last syllable of his. Tomas doesn’t really want to know. He’s not sure which is worse.

He wipes his mouth on his arm, tries to stand—and finds that Marin’s hand is on his shoulder, holding him still. Marin is stronger than he looks. Tomas glances up, a thrill of something inescapable fluttering in his gut as Marin's fingers hook under the collar of his shirt, tugging. Pushing, pulling until Tomas finds himself sitting on the floor, the wall a solid presence behind him and Marin hovering over his skin. His shirt disappeared somewhere along the way, and Marin’s hands meet no resistance as they trace their way from Tomas’ shoulders to the waistband of his shorts, before dipping below.

There are callouses on Marin’s hands, worn rough by hours and years of blisters and racquet grips. The same callouses mark his own hands, Tomas knows. The same aches, the determination. It should feel no different than if he were alone, in his own bed—but it is, it’s so different, the pressure of Marin’s fingers and the slow curl of his hand. Slow as the buildup of thunder on the horizon, the strain of muscles and the taste of sweat, straining pleasure, draining pain, pushing, pulling him into a blankness of white.

Tomas throws his arm over his eyes, breathing into the crook of his elbow as Marin strokes him through the aftershocks. It takes him a while to realize that Marin is whispering something against his ear, a string of words in a language that he doesn’t quite understand, the cadences falling like loneliness.

Tomas turns his head toward Marin—and the kiss catches him across the lips. There’s a second of utter stillness, a suspended heartbeat. Marin leans into the kiss, and Tomas puts one hand on his shoulder for leverage, parting his lips to let Marin’s tongue flick across his teeth.

It’s a sloppy kiss, wet and bruising and Tomas is pretty sure his lip is bleeding, though from whose teeth, he doesn’t know. He can also feel his own heart racing, and doesn’t know the cause of that either, just that Marin is solid, wiry, pressing against him—and his hair is softer than a childhood memory beneath Tomas’ hands.

It seems like forever—like no time at all—before Marin pulls away; the distance between them grows, but grows slowly. When Tomas opens his eyes, it’s to a dark-eyed gaze turned shadow-blue by the sliver of moonlight slanting through the curtains. Marin hovers, one hand braced against the wall beside Tomas’ head. Poised, as if torn between the urge to flee and the need to stay.

Tomas breathes quietly, the sound of Marin’s voice lingering in his memory. But the words are unfamiliar and already slipping from his mind; Tomas knows that, the moment he speaks, this fragile illusion will shatter.

So he just loops his arms around Marin’s neck again, inviting him closer for one more kiss. And when Marin touches his cheek—when Marin sighs a word that might have been a name, closes his eyes well before their lips meet—Tomas knows that he's not the one Marin is thinking of.

He says nothing, letting this perfect silence replace reality for just a few moments more.


End file.
